


don't want to wake the past that is sleeping in my swollen heart

by likecharity



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: (i.e. Elliot consents but it's not exactly informed consent because he forgot they're related), Accidental Incest, Breathplay, Brother/Sister Incest, Dissociation, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, F/M, Incest, Memory Loss, Panic Attacks, Sibling Incest, Woman on Top, also:, therefore:, what a combination of tags that is.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 06:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12811839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: Essentially: what if Darlene had kissed Elliot back? Inspired bythis excellent comic.Follows on from the kiss at the end of 1x08 and then stays as close to the canon timeline as I could manage.He never imagined she would be so gentle, so caring, that she would check in with him about how he was feeling, double-check. He thought she would be crass, demanding, mocking even—he pictured her wrapped in a towel in his bedroom, rolling her eyes as he stared. "What, you wanna fuck me?" A click of the tongue, a moment's deliberation. "Alright, but better make it quick, we've got shit to do." And then she'd drop the towel and pull him onto the bed, impatient, and maybe she would make fun of his clumsiness, his lack of experience, his shaking hands and stupid noises.He never imagined she would look at him like she is now, like she really does love him. It's crazy, but nothing that's happened to him over the past few months has been much else, so he does what he keeps doing lately and just goes with it.





	don't want to wake the past that is sleeping in my swollen heart

**Author's Note:**

> Pretentiously long title from 'Your Hot Knife' by Psapp.
> 
> Thank you so much to [shipcestuous](http://shipcestuous.tumblr.com) for talking this out with me!

"We should celebrate, then," says Elliot. "In forty three hours, exactly, our server will no longer be a honeypot, and that rootkit you wrote will take down Evil Corp." Darlene drops her cigarette, shaking her head as if in disbelief. "We did it, Darlene. It's gonna happen."

"We're really doing this?"

Elliot gives a little nod and suddenly Darlene's screaming, screaming at the top of her lungs, and he startles and glances around instinctively to see if anyone's looking at them. Darlene throws both hands in the air, unselfconscious and free. "Oh my god!" she laughs, and her pure, unadulterated joy is contagious; Elliot can't help smiling a little when she turns and beams at him. She scares him, she's so unpredictable, but his heart is pounding in his chest in a way that feels good.

Suddenly Darlene grabs the shoulder of his hoodie and tugs at it, shaking him. "Be happy!" she cries. "You did this! You did it!" She's nodding, smiling, laughing again, and then just as suddenly, she's sincere. "Just like that, Elliot, you're gonna change the world."

The weight of the words hits him hard, but he thinks of her, and the rootkit she wrote, and Mr. Robot who brought him into this in the first place, and Trenton and Mobley and Romero—

" _We_ did this," he corrects her, bashful but firm.

"I would love to take credit on this one, but I can't." She shrugs. She's grinning again and her face is so bright he has to look away. "No, really, this was you." 

She touches him again, hands on his shoulders as she positions him so that they face each other. She's forcing him to look at her and normally he might hate that but right now it feels different, exciting. His heart thuds frantically in his chest and it's not just the usual anxiety that sets in when someone puts their hands on him, it's something else, something about the look in her eyes. 

"You are seriously the best person I know, you know that?"

Elliot's mind goes blank. How does he react to that? He looks at her eyes, searchingly, trying to figure out what she's expecting, what she wants, and then she throws him for a loop again—"I love you so much." Her voice is soft, deep, _meaningful_. This isn't hyperbole, she means it. She means it. She loves him.

He'd be lying if he said he had never thought of her this way. There's always been something compelling about her, from the moment he first saw her at the arcade, something that's made him want to get closer even though he also feared that very same thing. She's pretty in a way that's almost threatening, equal parts beauty and danger.

And she loves him?

He does the only thing he can think to do: he kisses her. He remembers Shayla telling him not to ask first and so he just does it, and she tenses up against him for a second like she wasn't expecting it (but how could she not have been expecting it? Isn't it what she wanted?)—and then she's kissing him back, tentative at first and then passionate, urgent.

Then suddenly she stops, pulls back and looks into his eyes. "Are you sure, Elliot?"

"Yeah," he says, taken aback by the question.

"'Cause I need you to be sure. We both need to be sure, okay?" 

She's so serious. He can tell that she needs him to be serious too, so he nods, firm. "I'm sure."

She smiles, hesitantly, and seemingly decides to believe him because then she's kissing him again, a hand cupping his face, her rings cold against his jaw, her mouth warm. It feels like so long since he's had this—actual intimacy. He can't help thinking of Shayla again but the memory of her is already fading just as he knew it would, and this feels like what he needs. He thinks she would agree, as silly as the thought seems. It's been long enough now that he knows this isn't just some distraction from grief, but it's not entirely separate either. Maybe the grief has simply entwined itself with his ever-present loneliness, and this moment of relief from both is like a flood inside of him; he's kissing her harder, a hand in her tangled, windblown hair, his heart swelling.

He's breathing heavily when they part, shuddering breaths, all of his nerves alight as she looks into his eyes and bites her reddened lip.

"Can we go back to your place?" she asks, ever direct.

"Really?"

"Yeah. We can pick up where we left off." She smiles enigmatically, like the words really mean something, and Elliot feels like his head is spinning. This is all happening so fast and yet it feels so right. He doesn't want to say no to her, and it's not just because he doesn't want to let her down. He really _wants_ to take her home, and the realization is dizzying.

"O-okay," he stammers, and she leaps off the bench, that grin lighting up her face again. She strides off immediately, leaving him scrambling to follow her.

On the subway, she seems antsy, tapping her feet and being uncharacteristically quiet. He can feel her excitement and her nerves all tangled up with his own and he can't believe this is even happening—this isn't what he meant when he said they should celebrate but it doesn't matter, it's more than that. This isn't just about them being high off their success and wanting somebody to share it with. This is something bigger, he can tell already.

He wants to say something to her, if only because it's so strange that she's not talking, but he can't think of a single word and even if he could he doesn't think he'd be able to bring himself to speak. It feels like they're teetering on a knife-edge and the slightest thing could break the spell. 

He doesn't know how long the silence lasts. There's something hypnotic about the movement of the train, the juddering stops, the people getting on and off, and it lulls him—after a while he feels his heartbeat begin to slow again. He darts a look at Darlene and realizes that now she's more nervous than he is. He feels like he needs to do something to reassure her, like maybe she's having second thoughts. Maybe, in this sort of situation, he's supposed to be doing something more than just sitting next to her in silence and staring into space.

He turns to look at her properly, working up his courage as she flits anxious glances back at him and around the rest of the subway car. It's not like before, when it seemed like she was pleading him with her eyes, but it still feels like the right thing to do, so he takes a deep breath and gently turns her face towards him, leaning in and kissing her softly on the lips.

She flinches, and it's not like before, not like the brief moment of uncertainty before giving in. Elliot's heart sinks, but then she's touching his hand as if in apology, fleeting but significant.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. She's looking all around, her gaze never staying fixed on his. "I still get paranoid."

For the first time Elliot actually pays attention to their fellow passengers. There are a few men in suits further down from them and suddenly he understands. Those men in black he's always seeing; she sees them too. They _are_ real. And she doesn't want the two of them to draw too much attention to themselves.

He nods, quick, letting her know she doesn't need to explain, and then turns away, keeps the rest of the journey quiet.

As soon as they're back up overground—back into the anonymity of wide open roads and streetlight-spotted darkness—she's suddenly, decisively grabbing a hold of his hand. They walk like that to his apartment, her hand cold in his until he warms it up, her rings pressing between his fingers. It feels like she's asking for comfort or reassurance from his touch, and somehow, he feels like he can give it. Absurdly, it feels as though they're kids on the schoolyard, playing at being boyfriend and girlfriend. It seems innocent, though they both know what they're heading inside to do.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Darlene finds her voice again.

"You really wanna do this?" she asks, and she says it the same way she said "We're really doing this?" on the boardwalk, as if it's something monumental, something that really _matters_.

"Of course I do," he says, still puzzled by her sincerity, but appreciating it all the same.

He thought about this, once or twice—how could he not, after having her naked in his apartment?—and he never imagined it would be anything like this. He never imagined she would be so gentle, so caring, that she would check in with him about how he was feeling, double-check. He thought she would be crass, demanding, mocking even—he pictured her wrapped in a towel in his bedroom, rolling her eyes as he stared. "What, you wanna fuck me?" A click of the tongue, a moment's deliberation. "Alright, but better make it quick, we've got shit to do." And then she'd drop the towel and pull him onto the bed, impatient, and maybe she would make fun of his clumsiness, his lack of experience, his shaking hands and stupid noises. 

He never imagined she would look at him like she is now, like she really does love him. It's crazy, but nothing that's happened to him over the past few months has been much else, so he does what he keeps doing lately and just goes with it.

It's been so long since he's done this kind of thing sober (shit, has he ever? Right now he can't even remember) and it's scary how real it feels, how every moment is crystal clear. There's no haze of alcohol or drugs to hide behind or melt into; he can feel everything intensely—her hands on him, undressing him with a confidence he silently thanks her for because he's suddenly found himself frozen, just gazing at her like an idiot, wondering _how is this real?_ even as it feels so, so real.

He glances down and feels a wave of self-consciousness as he looks at his own body—so skinny, scrawny. He doesn't know what kind of guys she's slept with before and maybe it's just the self-hatred talking but he can't exactly imagine he's her type. But she's running her hands over him like she likes it, his chest, his tensed-up stomach, a bony hip—

"Elliot," she says, and his name sounds right in her voice, like he's heard her say it a million times. "You're in your head again. Are you sure this is okay?"

"Yeah," he says hurriedly, "yeah."

In a moment of bewildering boldness he finds himself bringing her hand between his legs, to where she's already impatiently undone his fly, to where he's undeniably hard for her.

Darlene laughs, rolling her mascara'd eyes. "Listen, I know your dick is saying yes but I always gotta check in with the brain too. Alright?"

Elliot laughs with her, awkward. "Alright." She's looking at him expectantly. "Right, yeah. My brain wants it too." He flushes. "Like a lot."

She's smiling, coy. "Then undress me."

Elliot hesitates. For a moment he wishes he did have something in his system to make this feel less real, because taking that first step feels impossible. With Shayla, he was so out of it he doesn't even remember—no. It hurts too much to think about Shayla right now. He pushes her out of his mind and looks at the girl in front of him, waiting, and he can't believe it—that she could want him so much he can actually sense her fear that he might not follow through.

He reaches forward with tentative hands, unsure how to start, but then it's like a switch is flipped and it's simple—he eases her jacket off her shoulders and hears it thud to the floor, and then he's fumbling with the hem of her shirt and she's helping him and it's _easy_. Even when her many necklaces get all tangled up, it's not awkward, she's laughing, yanking them over her head as the two of them stumble together in the direction of his bed. He's laughing too and he can't think of a time he's ever laughed in a situation like this before, always too tense to let go, but it feels right. It feels like it _should_ be this way.

He manages to undo her bra and she shrugs out of it, and he's touching her without even thinking, it comes so naturally—a hand trailing over her breasts, bringing a sigh from her mouth.

"Good," she says, voice low. "Very good."

She moves back to stumble out of her heeled boots and he follows her lead, toeing off his own shoes. He reaches for the zipper of her shorts and she wriggles out of them, and he does the same with his jeans. She doesn't bother with her knee-high socks, too impatient, pulling him in to kiss him again, this time only two thin layers of cotton between them, and he can feel the heat of her. 

"God, Elliot," she murmurs, and then something else, something he doesn't hear because the blood is rushing too loudly in his ears and he can _feel_ her, reaching between her legs to touch hot damp cotton as her heart pounds in her chest pressed against his. Her voices fades back in. "...Elliot, c'mon."

He slides his hand between fabric and skin, feels her pulse there as well, electrifying. She moans, loud, emboldening him, but before long she's yanking at the waistband of his boxers.

"You need to buy new underwear more often," she says breathily, a playful comment on the worn fabric, elastic coming loose.

"C'mon, Darlene..." he huffs, gazing at her, her bright smile. "Gimme a break."

She makes a grab for her backpack—abandoned on the sofa—and rummages around inside for a frustrated moment before managing to find a condom somewhere in there. She pulls out the shiny packet and he takes a shaky breath. _This is happening, this is happening._

Something tells him she's the type of girl to want to be on top, so when they finally make their way to the bed he settles himself on his back, knows he's judged her right when she grins and straddles his thighs. She looks comfortable, confident, as she tears the foil and slides the condom over him. Again it feels so real it's scary—as she eases herself down onto him it feels so, so intensely good that it's almost as if he blacks out for a second. 

Maybe he does. The next thing he knows she's riding him, fast, and suddenly everything is hazy and it's hard to focus. Her brightly-colored nails are digging into his chest and it hurts a little but in a good way, a sharp way that might bring him back down to earth. The feel of her around him is so good it threatens to send him drifting again, or at least to make him come. He tries to ground himself, tries to focus on other senses.

Under the smell of sex he picks up on a blend of her perfume and deodorant and sweat, and the combination is surprisingly familiar by now, oddly comforting. She's making small noises, maybe involuntary, each time they thrust against each other. He realizes suddenly that he's clutching at her, her hips and her ass, pushing up against her just as much as she's slamming down. Where did he get the confidence to touch her like that? Her small breasts are bouncing with the movement; she's almost frantic. In fact, she looks like she might be somewhere else too, her eyes closed, her head thrown back—sharp jaw, long neck, sweat glistening on her chest, one neglected necklace chain tangled and swaying.

"Darlene," he gasps, and he doesn't know why. It feels like he needs to say it. He's breathless, he sounds needy. "Darlene. Darlene."

It's like he's slipping outside of himself to take the edge off the intensity, and he doesn't want to; he wants to be here, he wants to feel this. He holds her tighter, thrusting up into her, gripped by a sudden desperate fear not to lose any of this.

Darlene looks down at him, her eyes shifting into focus, and he's straightening up just as she's leaning down, until he's sitting half-upright with her in his lap, and he's clutching at her and he's losing it again, moments slipping through his fingers—she's murmuring something and he can't make out the words, too overwhelmed by sensation. They kiss, messy and desperate, and then his head is buried in her shoulder, her hair in his face, and he can feel her lips against his neck. They're bucking against each other and when she comes her moan is so loud, and her thighs are clamped tight around his hips, and she's clenching and trembling and he can hardly believe it but he's coming too, letting out a sob against her hot skin.

She stays nestled on him, whispering, "Oh my fucking god, Elliot. Fuck," and various obscenities that he allows to go in one ear and out the other. His whole body is tingling. He feels like he just took a hit of morphine. The room is sparkling, and too hot. Their skin is slick against each other and it's too much, it's the kind of thing that should be bringing on a panic attack and yet it's not. It's not. It feels right. 

"Fuck," Darlene says again. She pulls back a little. Her make-up is smeary and there are bright pink spots high on her cheeks and she's so, so beautiful. "Fuck." She laughs, the same exhilarated laugh from the boardwalk. It already feels like a long time ago. "Fuck, Elliot, let me go," she says, but she's smiling.

"I don't want to," he says, smiling back, feeling dopey. Doped up.

Her grin gets even wider; she kisses him. "Well, we gotta move eventually, dude," she says, looking at him, her hands on his shoulders as she shakes her head. 

"I—I never felt anything like that before," he confesses.

She laughs. "I _know_ you're not a virgin, dude."

"No, I mean—" he stammers, "I just mean—it was intense."

She rolls her eyes but she's glowing, and he can tell she gets it. She must have felt it too, that drifting sensation, that pleasure so powerful it damn near took him out of his own body. "Aw, you flatter me," is all she says, though, easing off of him. She heads into the bathroom and he watches her go, naked but for her socks, condom in her hand like it's nothing, like she's done this a hundred times before.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she yells out to him.

"Well, you know how it works," he calls back, laughing to himself. He flops back onto the bed, rubbing his hands over his face, letting himself come down. He must be exhausted, because it seems like only seconds pass before Darlene reappears from the bathroom.

"...dude, you fell asleep? I did not take _that_ long."

Her hair is messily tied back and she's got one of his towels wrapped around her and she's talking away, just like before. He watches her, letting the words drift over him, as she digs around in her backpack and pulls out some make-up wipes, carefully cleaning her smudged eyes. She pads across the room towards him, smiling sweet and sleepy, tossing the towel over the back of his chair and throwing herself back onto the bed.

She rolls over to face him and he's surprised to see that she's teary-eyed. Her eyes seem a little smaller without all the make-up; it makes her look younger, maybe, more vulnerable. She looks at him for a long moment, enough eye contact to make him start to shift uncomfortably, and then she's touching his face, a thumb on his bottom lip. "You know what? Fuck it," she laughs, "I'm so happy."

Elliot's heart leaps. "Me too."

  


* * *

  


Darlene is gone when he wakes up and for a moment, in that drowsy state between asleep and awake, he's sure that the whole thing was a dream. It makes more sense that way, after all—too good to be true—but then he realizes he can smell her on the sheets. He sits up abruptly, and sees clothes strewn across the apartment, a towel still draped over his computer chair. On the bathroom floor he finds her socks and her necklace, left abandoned on the tiles. On the counter he finds a note written on the back of a page of code. 

_@ arcade,_ it says, in loopy scrawl, _don't freak out. see you there._ She's signed it with a lipstick print, a mauve smudge that makes him feel giddy.

He gets ready quickly, hurries out to the subway. He can't believe how well-rested he feels. He's never been able to sleep well with someone else in his bed unless he's really out of it, but he doesn't even remember being aware of Darlene's presence beside him, which is so insane it makes him worry again that it can't have been real—even when he digs a hand into his pocket and pulls out her crumpled note. It doesn't make any sense. How could he even have relaxed enough to fall asleep in the first place, with her right there, a warm naked body beside him under the sheets? He can't remember her making any noise, or attempting to curl up to him, or anything. He must have been out like a light.

He tries to see it as something positive instead of something so strange it's scary. What would Krista say? She'd probably say something about him letting his guard down, finally being comfortable enough with somebody to relax so completely like that. She'd be pleased. He should be too. But something feels off—something's scratching at that part of his brain, the part that doesn't allow good things to exist without conditions. He tries to ignore it. He's being paranoid. He's been lonely so long he's adjusted to it, hypersensitive around other people to the point that it feels wrong not to be. That's all it is.

Everyone's there when he gets to the arcade, and for a second he worries they'd set up a meeting that he somehow forgot about, but they're spread out, quietly working on their own things. There's nothing much more to do; everybody must just be performing their final checks, maybe planning ahead for the aftermath.

Darlene glances up when he comes in, gives him the type of smile she never would have offered before last night. His heart skips a beat. He forgets the nagging feeling; he wants her back in his bed again right now. And he doesn't even feel too anxious about what her own feelings might be—she made them so clear last night, and though she might be a little on the flighty side, he can't imagine her going back on it now. He could feel it, how much she wanted him, needed him...loved him. It makes him feel safe.

Safe enough to approach her and say what he's thinking.

"Hey." He takes a deep breath and touches her gently on the small of the back, ignoring the way his hand trembles, trying to be smooth. "So d'you wanna come round again tonight?" She just looks at him with wide eyes. "You know...pick up where we left off?" he adds shyly, echoing her own words, hoping it's cute and not just corny.

He's speaking quietly, but maybe not quietly enough, because both Mr. Robot and Trenton glance up, Trenton's expression curious and Mr. Robot's unreadable.

"Uhhh," says Darlene, giving him one of those looks people give him when he's doing something weird without knowing it. She dodges away from his touch and he bristles. This isn't what he expected. "Sure, man," she says then, her voice louder than his, almost stagy. "Yeah, I can show you the rest of the malware code."

Elliot flushes, realizing—too late—that no matter how she might feel about him, she's not comfortable with the others knowing about it. "Right," he says, clearing his throat, looking around self-consciously. Trenton has averted her gaze but Mr. Robot's still watching, eyes narrowed. "Right, yeah. I was...yeah, I was just interested in checking it out."

A little later, when the others have dispersed, Darlene drags him into a corner. "You get why that's not cool, right?" she hisses, looking at him like he's an imbecile. "I mean, could you try and be more subtle? _Jesus._ You almost gave me a fucking heart attack."

Elliot blinks at her. He can't help remembering the time the two of them turned up at the arcade together, her wearing his _shirt_ for Christ's sake. But she's nothing if not unpredictable, and he reminds himself that's partly why he likes her so much. Even if she has a tendency to overreact.

"I should not have to be telling you this but just to make sure we're on the same page, you remember you can't tell _anyone_ , right?" She stresses it again. "AN-Y-ONE."

He doesn't think they ever actually talked about keeping it a secret, but it's not that he minds. He's good at secrets, got a lot of them. And he gets it. He remembers the first time he came to the arcade, how Mr. Robot stressed the importance of not speaking to each other outside of these doors. _Our encryption is the real world._ Probably everybody would be on their backs for breaking the rules, getting too close. That makes sense. He doesn't want that either.

"Elliot, are you even listening to me?" Darlene snaps, and Elliot realizes he isn't.

"Right," he says quickly, "right, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"No _shit_ you weren't," she sighs, running her fingers back through her hair.

  


* * *

  


Mr. Robot tails him on his way out, and Elliot can't exactly say he's surprised. He saw the look in his eyes, the way he was studying them, assessing the situation. 

"So you and Darlene, huh?"

Elliot doesn't look back. "What about me and Darlene?"

"You're fucking?"

Elliot keeps his cool, keeps walking. "Is that a question?"

Mr. Robot catches up to him and grabs his arm, hard, startling him enough that he stops in his tracks. He should be able to shrug it off, but for some reason he cares what Mr. Robot has to say about this, even though he knows it's gonna be nothing good. He feels like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't, waiting for a scolding.

Mr. Robot clicks his tongue, clearly pissed already. "No, you know what, it's a statement. The others in there, they won't think much of it, but you can't get anything past me, kiddo."

"You're crazy, man. You're reading too much into things," says Elliot steadily, even though his heart rate has suddenly spiked. 

He doesn't want to admit it to himself but Mr. Robot does scare him sometimes. He's so intense about this whole thing, and so psychotic Elliot doesn't want to think about how he might react to someone breaking one of his special rules. He knows he's taking a risk lying to his face about this but it feels like the only thing he can do. Darlene would want him to, he tells himself. He remembers yesterday—before the kiss, when she offered him a gun and her phone number. _We need to protect each other right now,_ she said, like that was the most important thing.

Mr. Robot grabbed him after that, too, he remembers. _Lose Darlene's number, it's a rule for a reason._

Mr. Robot scoffs. "Don't try and bullshit me. I know what's going on and I'm here to tell you it's a bad fucking idea."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"You think it's not gonna complicate things, the two of you? You think you need a little love affair going on right now in the middle of all this? No. You need to stay focused, Elliot."

Elliot's resolve weakens; it's clear from looking at Mr. Robot's face that there's no point in trying to lie his way out of this. "I can handle it."

"It doesn't matter if you think you can handle it, this isn't what we do. You're not even supposed to see each other outside of that building right there, let alone see each other naked. Christ."

He almost looks disgusted.

"I can handle it," Elliot says again.

"No, Elliot, you can't."

"And who the fuck are you to tell me that?" snaps Elliot, hackles raised. He knows angering Mr. Robot further is a bad move but it's his fault for making this personal.

"Someone who knows what the fuck they're talking about. Believe me, you do not need the mess that Darlene is gonna bring into your life."

Elliot glares at him. Sure, Mr. Robot might know Darlene better than he does, or at least have known her longer, but this is still pretty fucking melodramatic. Okay, so Darlene's currently homeless, and a tad unstable, maybe even a little bit crazy, like him. But that's not a bad thing. That means she has a better chance of getting him. They have a better chance of getting each other.

"I like her," he manages eventually. It's weak, but it's all he's got.

Mr. Robot laughs, dismissive. "Of course you _like_ her."

Elliot sighs. He doesn't have to justify this to anybody. "Listen, I don't know what kind of power trip you're on, man, but this is my life, and I'm gonna do what I want."

Mr. Robot looks pained; Elliot catches a glimpse of it before he shrugs and backs off, hands up. "Fine," he says, "fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

  


* * *

  


Darlene does come by again that night, waltzing in and lighting a joint. It's a relief to see her, to know that their earlier squabble wasn't anything worse. He watches happily as she makes herself at home in his apartment: dropping her backpack, kicking off her boots, rambling about her day. It should feel like too much too soon, maybe—he remembers how bewildered he felt when she first started doing this, breaking in like a stalker, intruding on his personal space. But now it feels good. It's crazy, but he realizes he wouldn't even mind if she wanted to move in. He's been so lonely, so crushingly lonely, and her presence feels strangely right. 

"God, you never have any fucking food in your fridge," Darlene complains from the kitchen. She wanders over to the couch and plonks herself down beside him, passing him the joint.

He almost doesn't want it, wants to be totally present for this. He thinks of last night, scary but thrilling. He finds he can't remember all the details but there are some that are crisp in his memory, technicolor-bright, unforgettable even if he can't quite piece them together. The feel of her, hot and slick against his fingertips—the way she guided him inside of her—her necklace chain swinging between her breasts. A glimpse of the view from between her thighs as she lay back, biting her lip in anticipation—a flash of her beneath him, legs wrapped around him tight—the sound of her moan when she came, the way she trembled.

He lets her have the lion's share of the joint, settles for sitting back and watching her smoke. She's even cuter when she's high, giggly and soft, touching him but not too much, like she's easing him into it, like she's already learned that he needs that. 

"God, I love this," she sighs, her voice oddly wistful, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Yeah. It feels...right," he says, honestly.

Darlene laughs. "Weird choice of words," she says, "but okay."

"Do you wanna go on a date sometime?"

He doesn't know what makes him say it out of nowhere like that. Maybe it's just the pot, or maybe he feels like they need to make this Legit. That ever-present pressure to be "normal", still buried in his brain even though he's been so far from it for so long.

There's the slightest of pauses and then she's straightening up to stare at him, clearly caught off guard, and he feels that uncomfortable flip in his belly again like he's done something stupid, weird, wrong. 

And then Darlene laughs, suddenly, like she's belatedly getting a joke. "What the fuck, Elliot. Maybe in that fantasy land in your head."

She rolls her eyes and takes another drag on the joint, and he can't tell if she's pissed at him. Why would she be pissed at him? Then he remembers her reaction to her ex proposing to her— _all that 'love is forever' bullshit_ —and he thinks he gets it. Okay, so she's not a romantic. She doesn't want all that stereotypical relationship stuff, that's fine. He doesn't either, not really. He only asked because it seemed like he should. Seemed like it was the Thing To Do.

It's nice, actually, that he doesn't have to think that way with her. That he can be himself instead of clumsily trying to follow society's stupid rules and making a fool of himself in the process. Those rules were never meant for him. For people like them.

"God," says Darlene wonderingly, and Elliot realizes she's gazing at him, eyes big and blue. "You're such a fucking weirdo."

But she says it like it's a compliment, and Elliot's heart melts.

"I love you," she adds, like it's nothing. Maybe it is nothing. She said it before they'd even kissed, after all. She does things a little backwards. 

Elliot smiles. He kisses her, soft and slow.

"Can we fuck now?" she asks, flushed, stabbing the joint out in the ashtray on the coffee table.

Elliot stares at her, strangely charmed. A startled laugh bubbles up out of his chest. "Yeah," he says, and she grins, pulling back to yank her shirt off up over her head. "Yeah," Elliot says again, watching her.

This time it's even better, and not just because the pot has loosened him up a little. He feels like he knows exactly what to do. Within moments he has her writhing underneath him on the couch, her shorts pulled down, his hand in her panties—he finds that he knows just how to touch her, knows just what to do with his fingers to have her whimpering into his neck and twisting desperately beneath him.

And then they're fucking again, he's sitting on the couch with her in his lap, and he realizes vaguely that he's fading in and out, trying not to but he can't help it—it's so good he's getting spacey, struggling to focus. The leather of the couch is sticking to his skin and his head's lolling back and he's just gazing up at her through half-closed eyes, his hips working in tandem with hers like something automatic. He thinks, dreamily, that he likes how she takes the reins, how she doesn't expect him to be the dominant one. 

But right now he's not just passive; he feels like he's starting to drift outside of himself, watching this happen. And then suddenly Darlene's hand is on his throat and he lets out a choked-off gasp, clutching at her hips, a stab of arousal thrilling through him and bringing him back. He stares at her in shock but she only smirks knowingly, tightens her grip just a touch, just enough, and he moans low and harsh before he can stop himself.

He tries to do this to himself sometimes but it's hard to focus on two things at once and there's no way he's gonna end up one of those guys who accidentally hangs themselves while jerking off, so he has to make do with some light pressure from his own hand but it's never enough, it's not like someone _else_ doing it and he's never even been able to imagine getting close enough to someone to ask. And then Darlene just—does it, like she knows, like she can see all the dark, shameful parts of his brain just by looking into his eyes. 

Maybe he should be bothered by the fact that she didn't ask. Maybe he should be scared—yes, definitely he should be scared, letting her have this level of control—but he can barely think right now, not with her hand pressed firmly against his neck, the rings on her fingers just beginning to dig into the delicate skin of his throat as she grinds down against him, taking him deep. He trusts her. He trusts her and it feels so fucking good.

"I'm gonna come," he manages to force out, his voice a faint rasp, and then he does, vision fuzzing out, static in his ears. Darlene works him through it with the rocking of her hips, his own pumping up feebly.

And then he's blinking, bleary, the living room shakily taking shape around him.

"Look at me," Darlene's saying softly, and it takes him a moment to work out that the sound of her voice is coming from his left, and another moment to turn his head in that direction.

"That was awesome," he croaks, and she laughs.

"I was gonna ask if you were okay."

"I'm more than okay," Elliot hears himself saying, even though the truth of it is that he feels dizzy and disoriented. Maybe Darlene's grip was tighter than he thought; maybe lack of airflow did something to his brain.

Darlene studies his face closely. "You sure? You look wrecked, dude. I wasn't choking you _that_ hard."

She wasn't?

"I'm gonna find us something to eat," she decides, standing up on slightly wobbly legs. "You must have something edible in here _somewhere_ , right?"

"Maybe," he says vaguely, a delayed response once he manages to interpret her words as a question. He can hear her bare feet tapping on the kitchen floor, the sound of cupboards opening and closing.

"And then we're going to bed," she adds, "because I am fucking exhausted, and tomorrow, we're going to change the world." She laughs, hoarse, unscrewing a jar of peanut butter. "You gotta be well-rested for that kind of shit."

  


* * *

  


He's woken later by an unexpected noise from somewhere in the apartment. As soon as he's awake it's hard to pinpoint what it was exactly, but it's easy to find the culprit. Mr. Robot is standing there at the foot of the bed like a fucking serial killer, arms folded, lurking in the shadows. 

"Fuck," Elliot spits out, heart pounding. He glances at Darlene next to him; she's still fast asleep, her hair spread out wildly across the pillows, limbs haphazard.

Elliot gets up hurriedly, shivering in his boxers, and grabs Mr. Robot by the arm, steering him forcefully back towards the open door.

"Left it unlocked, kiddo," Mr. Robot says, seeing Elliot eyeing the door in confusion.

Elliot's pretty sure he didn't, but after having Darlene break in twice it's not entirely surprising that Mr. Robot would do the same.

"What the hell, man? Why are you here?"

"Thought I should check up on you. Turns out my instincts were right." He taps the side of his head. "Always trust your instincts, eh?" He glances in the direction of the bed. "We need to have another talk about this."

"It's the middle of the fucking night, you psychopath, and there's nothing to talk about. I told you before, this is none of your business."

Mr. Robot is unfazed. "It becomes my business when you bring it into _our_ business."

Elliot sighs, deciding to try and humor him. "Listen, man, I get it. You don't want us distracted from the project. You don't want us to slip and give ourselves away. But what can I tell you? We'll be careful."

Mr. Robot looks more distressed than Elliot's ever seen him and it's disconcerting. "It's not just that." His voice is raised and Elliot's heartbeat skitters with anxiety. He really, really doesn't want Darlene to wake up and find Mr. Robot here. He's not sure why, exactly—hell, maybe she'd actually do a better job of getting him to fuck off—but the thought makes him feel like he could puke from nerves.

"No?"

"You seriously do not understand what a bad idea this is." 

"So explain it to me then."

"Just trust me."

"Why should I do that?"

Mr. Robot hisses out a frustrated breath, pacing. "You have no idea how difficult you're making things for me right now."

Elliot hears a noise from around the corner, a rustling of sheets, a soft sigh. "Listen, man, you need to get out of here."

Mr. Robot clenches his jaw, and then—"Fine."

"What?"

"Fine. I'll allow you two to be together for the time being, but—"

Elliot can't let that slip by unnoticed. "You'll _allow_ us? Like there's anything you can do about it?"

Mr. Robot leans in close. Too close. "Believe me," he says, voice low, "I could destroy this relationship in two seconds."

"Yeah? Then go ahead, man. Do your worst." Elliot rises to it, deciding to call his bluff, even though the look in Mr. Robot's eyes scares him, the sincerity in his voice all too real. He hears another slight sound from the bedroom and his heart leaps into his throat. He tries to keep calm, juts his chin at Mr. Robot in challenge even though he feels frantic.

Mr. Robot does nothing for a moment that feels dangerously long, and then, to Elliot's surprise and relief, turns around and walks out of the apartment without another word. Elliot hears a faint creak from the bedroom and hurriedly shuts and locks the door, his hands shaking. 

When he turns around, Darlene is standing there, frowning sleepily at him in her tank top and panties.

"What's going on?" she asks, her voice rough from sleep, her arms crossed.

"Nothing," Elliot stammers.

She's silent for a moment, just looking at him, in a way that makes him itch.

"You were yelling."

"You were dreaming."

She looks—disappointed in him, almost. Betrayed. "You know you can always talk to me if things are—" 

"I'm fine," he snaps. He tries to soften his voice. "I'm fine," he says again. "Let's go back to bed."

He knows Mr. Robot is just trying to get into his head—trying to unsettle him, feeding on his paranoia so he'll end things—but there was something in his eyes that Elliot can't brush off, even as Darlene curls up close to him under the sheets, tracing lazy patterns on his chest with her fingers. Remembering the look on Mr. Robot's face makes him feel a hot stab of guilt in his gut, as if he wants to do as he's told, as if there's anything more to this than Mr. Robot being a meddling control freak, as if Elliot's actually doing something _wrong_. 

He tries to ignore it but the shame coils in his belly anyway, without explanation, and when Darlene kisses him Mr. Robot flashes into his mind and he turns away instinctively, feeling ill. Darlene doesn't question it, just curls up against him. It's nice, feeling like she understands, even though she can't, even though he doesn't understand it himself.

  


* * *

  


Elliot wakes to find Darlene hysterical. He's already sitting up, his whole body tense with something that feels like anger, though it's fading quickly like a vague memory of a dream. Darlene is crying, the wetness of the tears on her face glinting in the dim light, and she looks—afraid. 

He looks around wildly. His first thought is that Mr. Robot has come back and made good on his threat somehow, but the apartment is empty and quiet. It's just the two of them.

"What is it?" Elliot asks, bewildered. "What's wrong?"

Darlene only cries harder, body trembling and angled away from him. Elliot reaches out to touch her, to gently place a hand on her shoulder because that feels like the right thing to do—but she flinches away, eyes darting up to meet his, still wide with inexplicable fear.

"You're scaring me," she manages to get out.

 _You're scaring_ me, Elliot thinks, but he says "I'm sorry," instinctively, even though he doesn't know what's going on. Was she having a bad dream? 

Was he?

"I thought it was gonna be okay this time." She's struggling to get the words out, choked up. "Why would you—why would you say that? Why would you fucking say that to me?"

She's not making any sense. She must have been having a nightmare. Maybe their night-time intruder was the cause—she heard raised voices, maybe sensed the break-in. Elliot feels guilty again, a wave of it coming over him and settling in. He doesn't know what to do so he goes to touch her again, but she still blanches at his touch and her breathing gets even more frantic until it sounds like she can't control it, gasping and gulping, and suddenly he knows what to do.

He shifts on the bed so that he's facing her, but doesn't move any closer.

"Darlene, I'm gonna breathe slow and I want you to copy me, okay?" he says, his voice as soft and calm as he can make it. "Match my breaths, yeah? It's gonna be okay." Any anxiety he was feeling seems to flood right out of him in the face of Darlene's own panic, and he finds himself able to breathe slow and steady. For her. "Deep breath in...and then let it out slow. Like this, okay?" He inhales; exhales. "Like this."

At first it doesn't change anything, it seems like Darlene's taking about five panicked breaths for every one of Elliot's, but then slowly, gradually, they begin to sync up. She manages to look at him, and her breathing slows ever so gradually until it's at least back to a normal pace. He keeps going until she matches him, her chest rising and falling with his. It feels like it takes forever, and they just keep sitting there, staring and breathing at each other until it feels like it's over.

"I'm gonna get you a glass of water," he says gently, still not touching her. "I'll be right back. Five seconds, I promise."

He hurries into the kitchen and grabs a glass from the draining board, fills it and returns to her, sitting gingerly on the bed as he hands it over. She takes a sip, her eyes kind of glazed, her face sweaty. After another few sips she relaxes a tiny bit more. She's flushed, from exertion or embarrassment or both. The hair around her temples is frizzy and damp. She still looks more than a little wary, but she gives him a small brave smile.

"You're good at that," she says gratefully. Dealing with panic attacks, he supposes she means.

"Yeah, well. I've had practice," he admits, shifting uncomfortably beside her.

She takes a sip of water. "I guess so," she says sadly.

He must've already told her about his anxiety. Or else it's just that obvious.

Darlene takes another deep breath, this time like she's readying herself for something.

"Listen," she says, looking him in the eye, "if you really wanna have an actual talk about this then we can talk about it but—" her voice cracks. 

"No," he says, jumping in even though he doesn't know exactly what she's talking about. Something in him needs her to stop talking. "No. It's okay."

Darlene hesitates. "You mean it?"

"Yeah. I don't know what—" he starts, but he doesn't know how to finish. "I don't know..." he tries again, but he's still coming up empty. Impulsively, he leans in and kisses her instead. Her lips are salty with tears and she makes a little noise against his mouth, like a whimper, like relief.

"I love you," he says, and is surprised to realize it's the truth, he's _sure_ of it.

Her smile is beautiful and he pulls her close again and she lets him hold her, his shaky palm stroking her warm back through her threadbare tank top. "I love you," he whispers again because it feels good to say it, feels like something opening up inside of him, blooming.

"I love you too," she says and there's a smile in her voice and he knows they're okay. Whatever that was, they're okay.

  


* * *

  


They manage another few hours of sleep but they're both restless; Elliot can feel Darlene tossing and turning beside him just as much as he is. At one point he wakes up and she's just no longer there; he calls out her name and there's no response. But he doesn't worry, at least not too much. He knows that no matter what happened last night, they left things in a good place. 

And they're going to change the world together. Only about eight more hours to go and then the honeypot will be removed and they're free to start their revolution.

Still, as he gets up and starts the day, he can't help wondering where she went. He knows she doesn't have a home to go to, but aside from that, he realizes, he knows next to nothing about her life. He doesn't know what she does for a living, what she does with her time besides fsociety. There are so many things he hasn't asked her, probably due to his own social ineptitude as much as Mr. Robot's rules.

It's disconcerting to realize he can feel so close to somebody that he knows so little about. He hacks everybody in his life just to feel some level of comfort in their presence, and yet with Darlene...it's never even occurred to him to ask basic questions. He looks up at himself in the mirror as he's brushing his teeth; notices a faint reddish smudge of a bruise on his throat, a mark left there by one of her rings. He touches it gently and it feels tender.

Mr. Robot's words come back to him. He shouldn't put stock in anything that maniac says, but—he said it was a bad idea, that Elliot didn't even _know_ how bad. He said it like he knew something Elliot didn't. _You do not need the mess that Darlene is gonna bring into your life._ Even right at the start he said that if Elliot focused on her too much, it would be like entering a bad K-hole he'd never wake up from. Could he really have been exaggerating even back then, just to stop any potential attempt Elliot might make to get close to her? No. It seemed like he meant it, every word.

But Elliot can't reconcile any of it with the way he feels about her. He knows he's not just lovesick, knows he's too logically-minded to get lost in somebody who's not right for him. And besides, he really can feel it, inside of him, that she's something good. He remembers what Gideon said to him after Shayla's death, that he shouldn't let it close him off entirely. _Find someone you can be your honest self with_. It sounded like crackpot advice at the time, but now he thinks he gets it. He feels like he can be himself with Darlene. Not that she won't judge him sometimes or laugh at him or think he's nuts, but that he's still safe with her even when she does.

Suddenly the feeling he had last night after Mr. Robot left comes back hot and strong, in the pit of his stomach, something churning. He rinses his mouth out like he can wash it away, but it only gets stronger. He'd felt so sick, like something was rotten inside of him, and he feels it again now as he remembers. The look in Mr. Robot's eyes. The way Darlene's kiss made it even worse. And then Darlene's panic later, as if Mr. Robot's words had reached her too, as if she'd been infected by that same strange feeling Mr. Robot instilled in him, the one twisting up inside of him again now.

Before he can even process what's happening he's throwing up into the sink, a sudden weak spatter of bile.

The buzzer rings and he startles. He's so far gone that Darlene is still the first person he thinks of, even though he knows she always finds her way into the building on her own. He comforts himself with the thought that at least it can't be Mr. Robot, for that same reason. He rinses his mouth some more, distractedly, as the buzzer goes again and again. 

He makes it to the window, cracks the blinds and sees Angela stepping into view. 

Guiltily, he remembers the fight they had a couple days ago, and how he hasn't tried to get in touch with her since then. Honestly he's barely had a chance to even think about her, what with everything that's been going on, but he knows he's only perpetuating the exact problem Angela was so upset about. _You're never there anymore,_ she'd said. _You don't talk to me anymore._ And Elliot couldn't exactly argue. He's proven her point by disappearing on her right after that conversation. He didn't realize it until now but he was expecting her to show up, eventually, always making her do all the work in their friendship. 

Elliot buzzes her in and waits impatiently as she comes up, opens the door as soon as he hears her heels on the stairs.

"Hey," she says. She looks pale, drawn. Like she hasn't been sleeping well. "Listen, I really need to talk to you about something important."

He nods quickly and steps aside to let her in. She enters gratefully, like she thought he might turn her away, and that makes the guilt well up inside of him again. Easy, like it's always there waiting, right under the surface.

"The craziest thing happened last night—" she begins, and then stops abruptly when she sees the state of his apartment.

Darlene's stuff is strewn everywhere—clothes, make-up, jewelry, tech—and Elliot hasn't got around to clearing up. Actually, he doesn't mind the mess. It's nice to see her things scattered about, a reminder that he's no longer so alone here. 

Angela looks like she's waiting for an explanation. She studies him more closely and her gaze lands on his neck, on the bruise not quite hidden by the neckline of his hoodie. It probably looks like a hickey. He reaches up to touch it, self-conscious, watching her put the pieces together. He remembers her walking in on Shayla sleeping naked in his bed, remembers how awkward it was. He couldn't quite read her reaction then and he can't now either.

He remembers Darlene's freak-out at the arcade, how she stressed that he couldn't tell _anyone_. But what difference does it make if he tells Angela? He finds that he wants to. She's right—they've been distant lately, too distant. He used to confide in her. Not a lot, but more than he has been lately. And he remembers how he felt when the two of them talked the other day, when he realized he would never truly be able to give her the honesty and openness she so desperately wants from him. He'll never be able to tell her about his biggest secret, about fsociety. But maybe he can tell her about this. Maybe it can be the first step back towards that closeness they used to have.

"I've kind of...been seeing someone," he manages eventually.

Angela looks around the room again, more closely this time—Elliot can see her focusing on a few things, her brow furrowed. "Okay..." she says, looking confused. Her eyes find their way back to him and she shakes herself, attempting a smile. "I mean, that's great, Elliot, who?"

"This girl Darlene. She kinda wants to keep it on the down-low for now but you're my best friend and I know we've been...off, lately." He's stumbling over the words and it's sounding less like the nice gesture he intended. "Anyway I just—I wanna tell you."

Angela's attempted smile turns into a short, puzzled little laugh. "What?" Elliot doesn't know how to respond. "Elliot," she presses, "what did you say? Who?"

Elliot frowns. "Darlene?"

Angela's face falls. She glances behind him and spots the leotard Darlene has left in a crumpled heap on the floor, tangled up in some cropped knitted thing—an intriguing outfit he's never actually seen her wear, just something that got thrown out of her backpack at one point or another and left there. 

Angela abruptly sits down on the couch, so sudden it's like her legs have given out. She's still staring at the leotard, like she can't look away.

"What is it?" Elliot asks, concerned now. He thought she'd be happy for him, once the awkwardness of the moment passed. "What's wrong?"

She's silent for another few seconds, seeming to struggle to put together a sentence. Then she says, "Elliot, what are you talking about? What do you mean, you've been seeing her?"

Elliot hesitates. What doesn't she get? "I mean...we're like, dating, kind of? I mean we haven't been out on an actual date but..." Elliot drifts off, noticing how Angela has turned even paler than before. She reaches down and picks up the leotard, holding it loosely in her hand, staring. "I—I know it hasn't been long since Shayla, but..." Elliot adds, grasping at straws, wondering if that's the problem, though something deep within him knows that it's not.

Angela takes a deep breath, so slow, in and out. Elliot can practically see her counting seconds in her head and it's freaking him out, how hard she's trying _not_ to freak out. He wants to grab her, shake her, demand to know what's wrong—but he's frozen, helpless, waiting.

Finally Angela looks at him. "Elliot," she says, gently—strangely gently, her tone so carefully controlled it's disturbing, "Elliot, who is Darlene?"

Elliot can feel something like panic rising up in him, overtaking the confusion, and he tries to stay calm but something in his head is screaming and he doesn't know why. He looks wildly into her eyes, like he can find the missing puzzle piece there, but her expression only makes him feel sick again. He swallows and tastes it in the back of his mouth. 

"What—what do you mean, I just told you, she's—she's my girlfriend."

Angela can't hide the distress on her face and it makes Elliot panic more, makes the screaming get louder. "No..." she says weakly, "Elliot, she's your—"

He knows what she's going to say before she says it. She's his—

"Sister."

  


  


**End.**


End file.
